


Draw the Line

by idoltina, penguinutopia



Series: Find My Way [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Beards (Relationships), Breathplay, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinutopia/pseuds/penguinutopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He doesn’t feel wrong, he never has. He’s not looking for this, not asking for it, and that makes it so much harder. They aren’t good at this. They don’t do feelings. They don’t -- she’s going to miss him, she is, but she’s not in love with him and she never will be. She’s never going to want him like she’s supposed to. That doesn’t make losing him hurt any less.</i> This is the story of Sebastian and Santana, from beginning to ‘end.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draw the Line

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (if any):** bearding, breathplay, consensual sex between two canonically homosexual characters of opposite sexes, language, mention of character death, possible dub-con, slight homophobia

Santana’s parents die in a car crash when she’s seven. Her abuela takes her in and raises her. For a long time, Santana wants to be a doctor, like her father.

She changes her mind when she realizes that not even a doctor could’ve saved them.

She decides to be a lawyer, instead. There’s power and influence there, and it’s an acceptable career choice for her abuela.

Santana doesn’t do well with disappointment.

*****

When he’s in the seventh grade, Sebastian tells his father that he wants to be a lawyer, too. More importantly, he wants to be a Senator.

(He might have a thing for the Kennedy family.)

He neglects to mention that he’s also currently harboring a crush on David Huntington.

*****

They meet at freshman orientation.

*****

“What are you doing Friday?” Sebastian asks, stretching in his desk chair.

Santana hums but doesn’t look up from her book. “I don’t know,” she answers absently. “Lauren was talking about seeing the new _Twilight_ movie, but I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

Sebastian looks over at her in surprise. “Not into the whole vampires and werewolves trope?”

“Please,” she snorts. “Anyone worth paying attention to can back their shit up without supernatural abilities.”

He smiles. “Do you want to go to dinner? We could do Chez Rouge -- I know you like Italian -- and then we could go see something else. _Inception_ more to your taste?”

She shrugs. “Sure, Leo’s always good.” She pauses and then looks up at him, raising her eyebrows. “Wait, like a date?”

Sebastian drums his fingers on his desk, shifting uncomfortably. “Well, yeah?” he ventures. “We’ve been hanging out for almost a year, I just thought...”

Santana considers him for a moment. “I’d rather it were you than someone else,” she decides after a moment. “Particularly Jeremy Bradshaw. God, that guy’s as slimy as they come.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Nice to know I’m tolerable.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, like the reasoning you just provided was any better.”

“I didn’t compare you to Jeremy Bradshaw!” Sebastian snaps defensively.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” She tosses one of the pillows from the bed at him in an attempt to soften the blow. “I can’t.”

Sebastian furrows his eyebrows. “Did you just accept my dinner invitation and then reject it?”

“It’s not -- it’s my abuela,” Santana explains. “She doesn’t really want me dating until after my quinceañera.” She colors and shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

Sebastian softens a little. “Hey, parents -- grandparents, whatever, I get that. You’ve met my parents. You know what they’re like.”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Constantly buzzed or high-strung -- real power players. I’m glad you’re not that uptight. I don’t think I could stand it. I’d have to find someone to remove the stick from your ass.”

Sebastian swallows thickly. “You need an escort, don’t you? For your quinceañera?”

She gives him an odd smile. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Are you offering?”

He grins at her. “We’d get to hang out more and your grandmother could get to know me -- it’s win-win as far as I see it.”

“True. Plus, this way I wouldn’t have to use my cousin Renaldo.” She scoots down on the bed and reaches out a hand to him. “Okay, deal.”

He takes her hand and smiles wider. “I’m cashing in on the dinner and a movie date.”

She grins wider. “You’re buying.”

*****

They enter their hotel room and leave their cat-calling friends behind, the door clicking shut and barring them in. “Senior prom,” Sebastian sighs, shrugging out of his jacket. “I guess it wasn’t a completely painful experience.”

Santana slips out of her red stilettos and twirls on the spot, smiling impishly at him. “It was a dream,” she sighs breathlessly, her tone mocking. “Seriously, how was that any different than homecoming, or Sadie Hawkins, or any other dance?” She flops down on the bed and closes her eyes. “I am _starving_. Dinner was hours ago.” She looks up at Sebastian hopefully. “Can we order room service?”

He grins at her. “Menu’s probably in the drawer. Wanna watch a trainwreck on MTV or Bravo?”

She digs in the drawer for the menu and gives it a once-over. “You’re the lamest seventeen-year-old boy I know,” she drawls, skillfully deflecting the pillow he tosses at her. “It’s your senior prom, you’re in a hotel room with your girlfriend, and you want to watch trashy reality television? They probably have Skinemax.”

“Yeah, that we’d have to pay for,” he points out. “Why do that when there’s perfectly good free porn online?”

“Oh my god, I’m getting a burger,” she groans, handing him the menu and crossing the room to her overnight bag. She snaps her fingers impatiently. “I’m starving, make it quick.”

He rolls his eyes but does as he’s asked, placing orders for both of them before taking off his shoes and socks and tie. “We’re a couple of thirteen-year-old girls, aren’t we?” he sighs. “This is turning into a really expensive sleepover.”

She grins wickedly at him. “Do you want me to paint your nails?” He throws another pillow at her and misses by about three feet. “Oh, a pillow fight. Okay, I think you just deaged us, what are we, five?” He snorts with laughter but doesn’t perpetuate the joke. She crosses the room again and presents her back to him. “Unzip me? I can’t reach it on my own.”

He does as he’s instructed and immediately feels at least ten years older than he actually is, chained to Santana and comfortable with her in the way an old married couple is supposed to be. Her dress falls to the floor, pooling at her feet; she steps out of it and picks it up to take it back to her overnight bag. It’s not awkward, seeing Santana in her underwear (although she’s wearing a thong which gives Sebastian a pretty good view of her ass); they’ve spent enough summers around each other in swimsuits at his parents’ pool and out on the Cape for it not to be.

But this -- this is different, because she’s this close to naked and they’re in a hotel room on the night of their senior prom; they’ve been together for almost two years and... There’s a script they’re supposed to follow, here. They’ve never talked about it. Neither of them has ever pushed for it. They kiss because they’re good at it, because they’re comfortable with each other. To everyone else, they’re the perfect fit. They get along because they’re so similar, they can predict each other’s thoughts and words and movements. It’s easy, too easy, and it’s because there hasn’t been _this_ to complicate it.

Sebastian swallows thickly. Time to bite the bullet.

“Hey,” he says quietly, reaching out a hand. “Come here.”

She raises an eyebrow at him but comes back to the bed, nightgown in hand. He runs his fingers over her palm, the silk of her gown, and breathes out. He takes the gown from her and sets it aside before looking up at her. He tries to speak but the words die in his throat, and he ends up sitting there at the edge of the bed, holding her hand and looking up at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Wordlessly, she reaches for the buttons of his dress shirt and starts to undo them.

Santana saves him. She always does.

She slides the shirt off of his shoulders and kneels in front of him, working his belt off and tugging at his pants. He stands to let them pool on the floor and it’s still not awkward, being with each other like this. His hands anchor at the small of her back as hers wrap around his neck, fingers toying with the hair at the nape. They’re kissing before they even really know it or plan for it and it’s just as good as it always is, hot and wet, mouths together.

They kiss for too long, standing next to the bed, neither of them moving towards it, and Sebastian wonders vaguely which one of them is going to make the first move.

It’s Santana, in the end. It always is.

She breaks the kiss and settles onto the bed, propped up by pillows, and offers her hand without another word. He takes it and pulls the covers down, crawling in with her and settling on top of her, careful not to nudge between her legs. He’s barely hard from kissing her, something he hopes she doesn’t notice because it’s not her, it’s him, and Sebastian knows that sounds like the lamest excuse in the history of the universe, but --

“Hey,” she murmurs, running her hand up and down his back. “Relax. It’s just sex.”

It’s the first time either of them have said it out loud and the room suddenly feels thirty degrees colder. But he swallows again and nods before leaning down to kiss her again, his hand tucking under to rest on her shoulder blades. Her skin is too smooth and too warm and he keeps running his thumb over the band of her bra by accident. She laughs into his mouth and tugs his hand out from behind her. “It unhooks in the front, Einstein.” The joke does nothing to defuse the tension for him because now he’s staring at her breasts, tucked perfectly behind red satin, just shy of spilling over. The hook’s there, right in the valley and all he has to do is let her keep guiding him and then it’ll be off, followed by her underwear and then his and there’s a condom in his wallet --

He pulls away from her with a gasp and rolls onto his back. “Yeah, I can’t do this.”

“It’s really not that hard,” she says dryly. “I can do it for you, if you want --”

“That’s not -- this isn’t about the bra,” he huffs.

She sits up and tucks her knees against her chest; she looks small, curled away from him and _fuck_ he’s actually hurt her feelings, he’s never done that before. “Hey, no,” he says, sitting up a little and using his hand to gently turn her face to his. “It’s not what you think.” Her eyes are glazed over and she looks like she’s in as much pain as he is, lip worried between her teeth and holding back words she doesn’t want to say.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

He blinks at her in surprise, mouth hanging open a little. It takes him a minute to realize that her tone implies that this isn’t a conclusion she’s recently reached. “How long have you known?” he breathes.

The smile she gives him is watery at best and she looks down at her knees. “A while,” she admits. “I’ve always thought _maybe_ , but I think I knew for sure at homecoming. If you don’t want people to know, you should probably keep your leering in check.” She turns to face him again, smirking a little. “David Huntington? Really? How long have you been into that tool?”

He barks out a laugh, he can’t help it, and settles back onto the pillows, suddenly much more at ease. “Seventh grade,” he admits. “Long before I met you.”

“You could do better,” she says, ruffling his hair a little. He smiles at her and she looks back down at her knees. “Me too,” she adds quietly.

“You could do better than me? A few years ago, you said you’d rather it were me than fucking Jeremy what’s-his-face --”

She turns and looks at him sharply, her eyes wet again. “Stop being willfully obtuse,” she snaps. He wrinkles his brow, confused for a moment until --

He sits up fully, now, and reaches over for her hand. “You’re gay?”

A breath escapes her, harsh and loud, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s weird hearing it said out loud.”

“Santana,” he says softly, “I had no idea.”

She turns to look at him again and actually smiles. “Yeah, well.” She nudges his shoulder with his own. “That’s because I’m better at hiding things than you are.” They fall back against the pillows together, Santana curling up into Sebastian’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell anyone?” she asks after a few moments.

He plays with her hair (too long) and sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to about this.” He smiles down at her. “Are you?”

“No,” she answers immediately, her lips thinning into a line. “So please, just... don’t say anything, okay?” She looks away from him and reaches down to twine their fingers together. “I couldn’t stand it if she knew. She’d be so disappointed.”

Sebastian turns her face to his again and kisses her, soft and warm. The difference is striking, now that they’re out to each other, but somehow he’s more comfortable doing this now than he was before. “Your secrets are always safe with me.”

Santana grins at him, wide and bright. “I know,” she quips. “Future politician and all that. You’ll probably do a better job of keeping my secrets than your own.” She glances over at the television and then back at Sebastian. “Tell you what,” she says. “Let’s order some porn while we wait for room service. I bet you we’d make better critics than most of the judges on those crap reality shows.”

*****

She doesn’t burn from the sun.

If anything, it’s the scalding water in the shower that will turn her skin bright red.

Santana exhales through her nose and runs her nails across her scalp, feeling the sand and salt give way as she works the shampoo through her hair. She can make it on her own, she knows she can. She doesn’t _need_ a companion, doesn’t need the feelings or the clinginess or anything that comes with it. It’s just -- being out at the Cape this weekend has sort of thrown her relationship with Sebastian into an entirely new light. They’re not even together anymore, not since he came out to his parents at the beginning of the summer, and yet...

He’s been her best friend for the last four years, something she’s reluctant to admit even to herself, and she’s actually going to miss the loser. She’ll miss having someone who can keep up with her barbs. She’ll miss the way he respects her intelligence and work ethic. She’ll miss having someone to unload her secrets and frustrations on. She’ll miss his stupid meerkat smile and his obnoxious CW hair and the way he acts like has to try so hard when in reality, he’s actually fed with a silver spoon.

“Hey.”

She glances up at the sound of his voice and finds him leaning against the edge of the sink counter. She wonders exactly how much he can see through the steam and fogged up shower door. “I hate to break it to you, peeping Tom, but one, this isn’t a free show, and two, I don’t exactly have the parts you’re looking for.”

“Can I join you?”

She raises an eyebrow at him but shrugs and grabs the bottle of conditioner. She watches him step out of his swim trunks and slide the door open before stepping inside. It’s a level of intimacy they never breached in the two years they were together (they came close, once, back in May), a little too domestic for her liking. She turns in the spray to get her hair wet and watches as his eyes take in her figure, trailing from her breasts down her torso to her pelvis and back up. “It’s pointless to ask if you like what you see, isn’t it?”

He looks back up at her face and smiles a little. “Objectively, you’re very attractive.”

She snorts and cards her fingers through her hair, working the tangles out. “Such a fucking politician.” She leans back and rinses her hair out, glancing down. “You’re not so bad yourself. You know, for a dick.”

He rolls his eyes at the double entendre and reaches behind her for the loofa and shower gel. “Thanks, Snix,” he says dryly. “That’s really going to give my self-esteem a boost for when I’m out trying to seduce guys in California.”

“Objectively,” she says, and he laughs. “Objectively, you’re hot, okay? You’re in decent shape from all of the sports you did and your dick’s nothing to sneeze at. The hippies will think you’re hot, okay, twink?” She leans against the wall. “What’s your type, anyway? Besides giant tools?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

She places her hand over her chest and bats her eyelashes. “Undergrad, a time for self-discovery. You’re a regular cliche, you know that?”

“Whatever.” He nudges her with his elbow. “Switch with me, I need to rinse.” She obliges albeit begrudgingly, turning her back to him. She tenses a little when his hands wrap around her, the loofa dragging across her stomach. He pulls her against him, her back against his chest, and buries his face in her neck, water falling onto his back and dripping around to her, running in streams down their legs. “I’m gonna miss you,” he murmurs into her skin.

She closes her eyes and lets herself get lost in the way his lips feel on her neck. That, at the very least, doesn’t feel wrong. He doesn’t feel wrong, he never has, and he’s not even hard against her. He’s not looking for this, not asking for it, and that makes it so much harder. They aren’t good at this. They don’t do feelings. They don’t -- she’s going to miss him, she is, but she’s not in love with him and she never will be. She’s never going to want him like she’s supposed to.

That doesn’t make losing him hurt any less.

She spins in his arms and kisses him hard on the mouth, her hand grabbing at the knob to shut the water off. He drops the loofa on the shower floor and pulls her against him, his hands wet and too-broad against her back. But at the same time, it’s familiar and comfortable and she’s going to _lose_ that in a matter of hours --

“Fuck you,” she gasps against his lips. “Why do you have to do that?” She kisses him again, tugs at his hair at the nape of his neck and pushes him against the wall. “Why?” He doesn’t answer her and she doesn’t need him to because she already knows the answer.

If they can’t do this with each other, they can’t do it with anyone.

He slides the shower door open and offers her his hand. She gives it to him, just like she’s given him everything else.

He can have this, too.

Their skin’s still damp when they fall into the sheets, too slippery and awkward. He leans in to kiss her, still not hard against her hip, and she has to fight back a laugh at the thought of the last time they were tangled together like this. “I’ve done all the hard work for you,” she chuckles into his mouth.

He pulls back and looks down at her chest for a brief moment before looking back up at her face. She rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, moving it to her breast. “They don’t bite.”

A smile flashes across his face, brief and unexpected. “No,” he admits, cupping her breast in his hand, brow knit in concentration, “but you do.”

She barks out a laugh. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

His face falls a little. “Is that why we’re doing this?” he asks. “To be sure?” His thumb brushes over her nipple as he pulls his hand away --

She arches against him with a gasp; her mouth collides with his, open-mouthed and clumsy and it’s so, so wrong. “To say goodbye,” she mumbles against his lips.

“Santana --”

“Stop,” she admonishes, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t ruin this with talking, okay?” She kisses him again, mostly to prevent him from talking. “You do that, sometimes. You talk too much and that inevitably leads to talking about feelings and that’s not what we’re doing here, okay? We’re doing this so we don’t have to talk.”

He smirks at her a little. “Funny,” he laughs. “Normally I can’t get you to _stop_.”

“See what you did?” she sighs, falling back onto the pillows. “You kept talking and reminded me how much of an asshole you are.”

He grins wider and leans in closer, lips grazing hers. “You know you lo --”

“Stop,” she groans, pushing his head down her body. “Just _do_ something, okay? Before this gets any more awkward.” He presses a kiss to the right of her belly button before trailing further down; he studies her with way too much concentration for a gay man, fingers ghosting over her folds. “Hey, Andrew McCarthy,” she snaps. “You’re not studying for the SATs or an AP exam. It’s a fucking vagina.”

Sebastian _hmms_ at her but doesn’t lift his gaze. “I’ve heard they’re rather... complicated. Difficult to please.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”

He looks up at her and grins mischievously. “Challenge acce --”

“No,” she groans, hiding her face in her hands. “Oh god, I’m about to have sex with Barney Stinson.”

He bends down and situates himself between her legs, nudging her thighs a little further apart. “Does that make you Robin Sparkles?”

“Do I look like a teenage popstar to you?” Santana snaps. “Can it, Swarley, and do something already.” He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed, but presses in closer, his nose brushing against her skin. She waits, waits for the unfamiliar sensation of having someone else’s fingers or tongue pressed there, but all she gets is the faintest hint of skin on skin contact, the pressure barely-there -- “What the hell are you doing down there?” she huffs out.

He looks up at her darkly. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You aren’t doing anything. Oh my god, here, I’ll show you.” She grabs a fistful of his hair and positions his head a little further down, fighting the bloom of arousal in her abdomen at the whine he gives when she pulls on his hair.

“You watch a lot of porn, don’t you?” he murmurs, relaxing under her grip and letting her guide him.

“No, it’s my body,” she throws back dryly. “I know what feels good when I use my fingers, okay?”

He smiles against her thigh. “I love that you own up to the fact that you masturbate.”

“Would you expect any less from me?” She feels his lips right where she wants them, just above her opening, and releases her grip on his hair. “There,” she says. “Just -- start there,” she instructs, “and lick your way up towards me. And don’t be afraid to apply a little bit of pressure.” He hesitates for a moment before diving in, pressing the tip of his tongue to the spot she’s indicated before flattening his tongue and dragging upward slowly. It’s wet and strange and familiar all at the same time, and her thighs tremble a little as she fights not to wrap her legs around his head. He does it once, twice (this actually feels kind of good, no wonder people love oral sex so much) before pulling back and studying her again. Something unpleasant twists in her gut and she knows her face is probably bright red and betraying her discomfort. “You don’t have to finish,” she mumbles. “God, if you just want to stop, we can get dressed and pack up and drive back to Boston --”

“No,” he says firmly, pressing a palm flat against her stomach and pressing her back into the bed. “It’s just... different. It’s not what I’d ever envisioned myself doing, you know?”

“Are you like, totally repulsed by lady parts now?”

He laughs and presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, and somehow _that_ is what makes her feel better. “Not repulsed,” he argues. “Just... not interested.”

“Yeah, mastering the art of going down on a woman isn’t going to be a useful skill when you’re planning on spending the rest of your life with a dick in your mouth,” she teases, grinning. “And yet you want to keep going.”

He looks up at her, his eyes dark, calculating. “I want to get you off,” he says, lowering his voice. He pries her folds apart and presses a kiss to her clit, keeping his eyes trained on her face.

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” she gasps. “This is a power thing for you, isn’t it?” She can tell he’s grinning even though she can’t see his mouth, and he licks up again as per her instructions. He licks again, and again, but she refuses to react and give him the satisfaction. She should’ve expected nothing less from him, turning their last night together into a fucking _game_ , and she doesn’t want to admit that playing with power turns her on too. She figures he’s probably figured that out, though, with how wet she is.

Santana starts when he shifts a hand between her legs and starts to press two fingers inside of her; she reacts instinctively and reaches out for his wrist, stilling him. “What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly.

He pulls away from her, hands and fingers and mouth, but doesn’t yank his hand from her grasp. “I don’t have to if you don’t want me to,” he says quietly. “I just thought you might want... I don’t know, something more.”

She laughs, the sound bubbling up and out of her chest, she can’t help it. “Are you going to take care of all of the boys you sleep with like this?” she chides. “Because that doesn’t really seem to be your style.”

“You’re not exactly my type,” Sebastian throws back. “Nothing about this is exactly normal.” He kisses the inside of her wrist, her palm, the tips of her fingers, and closes his eyes. “If this is goodbye, I want to do it right.”

She releases his hand and closes her eyes, trying to relax. This isn’t anything she wouldn’t do with another girl, and she has to keep reminding herself of that as he slips his fingers back inside of her, pumping in and out slowly. He starts to lick up her labia again, a little more firmly this time, and suddenly she doesn’t care so much about holding out. She just wants to _let go_. “Focus on my clit,” she chokes out. He licks up one more time before shifting his attention, crooking his fingers inside of her a little. He licks over her clit, tongue broad and wet and firm, and her hips buck up a little at the attention. “Faster,” she breathes.

He flicks his tongue as commanded, faster than before, moving his fingers again. She feels pressure _everywhere_ , inside of her and on her clit and on her thighs, in her gut and the tips of her nipples and even her fucking eyelids. She hopes to god that he’s actually really, really bad at this, because she’s never going to forgive him if he ruins her for the women she plans to fuck at school (and that takes some of the edge off because she has to fucking sneak around behind her abuela’s back and that’s _not_ something she wants to be thinking about right now). “Suck on my clit,” she says, her voice raspy and slightly desperate but she is so beyond the point of caring right now.

He pulls away from her, just slightly, and coughs a little. “You watch too much porn,” he complains, his voice just as gone as hers.

“I know what I want,” she argues, grabbing his hair and trying to force him back down. “And right now, you sucking on my clit sounds like a really, really good idea.”

And he does, just once; her hips buck up violently and he pulls away again, panting. “Are you actually going to come?”

“Don’t be a smug bastard about this,” she whines, pulling his face back down. “ _Please_ , just --”

He darts back down with the force of her hand and sucks on her clit hard, pumping his fingers a little faster. She can feel it building, swelling with her clit and the pressure inside of her pussy and the way her stomach twists, over and over until it’s too tight, she’s gone too high and he’s sucking the soul out of her --

She comes with a loud cry, shoving her pussy into his face and she pulls his head closer, her legs wrapping around his head and shoulders. His fingers still as she clenches around them but he keeps sucking, tongue flicking out to apply a little more pressure to her clit. She pushes him away with a whine as she comes down, her legs falling to the side, her arms hitting the mattress with a quiet _thump_. He peppers kisses up the inside of her thigh before crawling up to lie next to her, his knuckles brushing lightly against her arm.

“Wet,” she rasps, batting his hand away half-heartedly. “Your fingers are wet.” The bed creaks as he crawls off of it, the tap whistling as he washes his hands in the bathroom. When he returns, she feels the mattress dip with his weight. “It was the _please_ , wasn’t it?” she asks breathlessly, pulling her legs together a little. “I swear to god, you’re going to be the biggest power-tripping lawyer on the face of the planet --”

“Hey,” he chastises, laughing a little. “I don’t get a _thank you_ or anything?”

She rolls onto her side, trying to ignore the dead weight her legs have become. “What do you expect, for me to be eternally in love with you or some shit?”

Sebastian shakes his head at her. “No. A _thank you_ would be nice, though.”

Santana rallies and rolls over a little, hooking a leg over his and resting her chin on his chest. “What do you want?”

His smile fades. “I don’t know.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yes you do,” she argues. “You’ve never been afraid to go after what you want.” He shifts uncomfortably under her weight, not meeting her eyes, and she sighs in frustration. “Okay, you? You’re totally killing my buzz right now, so I’m gonna steer this away from all of the feelings crap and refuse to let you make this awkward again. Just tell me what you want. What, my fingers in your ass?”

He does look over at her at that, flushing a little, and it’s then Santana notices that the water on his brow isn’t from the shower. “No,” he says, shaking his head. He reaches for her hand and taps at the tip of her fingers. “Nails.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, so what? You want me to let you do it yourself?”

Sebastian swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat, and his voice is back to being low again when he speaks. “I want you to _let me_.”

It takes her a minute to get the implication but when she does, she grins slowly, all teeth. “So I get to call the shots.” He nods, just barely, and she can’t fight back the laugh that escapes her. “I never would’ve pegged you as someone who likes to be teased.”

“Can you please not talk about pegging?” he asks, voice strangled. “There’s -- in my suitcase, there’s lube. Can you --”

She nods and untangles herself from him to retrieve it. “Don’t start without me,” she orders, and his fingers twitch in an effort to obey. When she returns, he reaches out a hand expectantly for the bottle, but she shakes her head. “Just tell me how much. I’ll make sure you’re not too dry.”

He laughs at that, fingers trailing down to where she’s still a little wet. She smacks his hand away and nudges his legs apart before uncapping the bottle. She reaches for his right hand but he curls his fingers away from her, trying to offer her his left instead. “You’re right-handed, dumbass.”

“No, it’s just --” The color on his cheeks grows darker as he uncurls his fingers slowly and deliberately, one by one. “I usually save my right hand for --”

“For jerking yourself off, yeah, I figured.”

“So you’re not gonna let me?”

She coats his fingers with lube, ignores the hiss that escapes him and watches as a little bit of it drips down his palm. “Remember how I said you were going to ruin this with talking?” He bites his lip but shuts up, finally, and she settles back on her heels to watch him. “Start,” she instructs. “I’ll tell you when you can do something different.”

He closes his eyes, then, and reaches a hand between his legs, hoisting them up a little. The tip of his middle finger circles his entrance, slides up and down between his cheeks -- the areas he can reach, anyway -- until he’s slick and damp and wiggling his fingers at her, eyes open again. She obliges without making him work for it, some of the earlier nerves and awkwardness back. It’s fucked up -- god, this is so fucked up and twisted and he’s probably never going to be like this with anyone again, submissive and vulnerable.

She shakes her head and tries to focus on letting this be good for him -- she owes him that much. His eyes are closed again as he pushes the tip of his middle finger inside, just to the first knuckle.

Sebastian’s holding his breath.

It hits her then, how startlingly intimate and personal this is, watching him try to get himself off. She can see how tight he is, right around the tip of his finger, can see the hesitation as he fights not to push in more. She leans forward and wraps her hand around his, pushing herself up onto her knees until her face is level with his. His eyes snap open in surprise, and she smiles to get him to relax. “Hey, it’s just me.” She can feel him relax at her words, feel the way his limbs sag and his hand gives way to her touch.

She pushes his finger in the rest of the way, and he arches towards her with a gasp. His dick twitches a little against her thigh and she glances down, amused. “Fucking finally.”

She pulls away again, lets him move his middle finger in and out of his own accord, his dick growing a little harder. When his finger starts to slide with ease, he pulls out all the way, holding out his hand again. “More lube.”

She obliges again, this time with a request as he sinks his index finger along with his middle finger, groaning once they’re in up to the second knuckle. “What do you think about?”

“What?” he huffs impatiently, trying to stretch himself enough to get both fingers in all of the way.

“What do you think about?” Santana asks again, hand hovering dangerously close to Sebastian’s. “When you do this? Do you think about anyone? Do you think about someone’s dick inside of you?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs, fingers not quite in all the way. “I’m not going to --”

“You want this second finger to stay in, you tell me,” she coaxes, tips of her fingers dancing across the back of his hand. “And if you say David Huntington, I swear to god I’m going to pull your fingers out of there and --”

“Hands,” he says quickly, hand struggling to move under hers. “I think about hands, and stubble and --”

“And?” she prompts, pushing against his hand until his fingers sink in all the way.

Sebastian groans, completely hard now, and fucks down onto his fingers, foot pushing at Santana’s shoulder. “And the weight of a cock in my mouth and a perfect ass and --”

“And you want it so bad, don’t you?” she breathes, maneuvering around his foot to hover over him again. “The boys are going to _love_ you in California.” He whines and reaches his free hand between them, making a grab for his dick. “No,” Santana orders, shifting her weight again. “Not yet.”

He rocks up a little, burying his head against her shoulder, and the breath he lets out feels cool against her breast. The tip of his dick brushes against her stomach, and she can feel pre-come smearing against her skin. “Santana, _please_.”

Arousal swells in her gut at that but it’s not enough and she’s already gotten off anyway. He didn’t want this to be easy, the fucking masochist, and she’ll be damned if she lets him get off this easily. “No,” she says again, pushing him back down. “This is what you wanted.” And that hurts more than it should, because he always gets what he wants, especially from her. He gets to share his secrets and keep hers, gets to be snide and judgmental, gets to be out and away from here. He gets everything.

She gets _nothing_. She should hate him for it.

She can’t.

She moves her hand to the base of his throat and presses down a little. He gasps a little and twists under her, trying to escape her hold. She doesn’t miss the way his fingers pump in and out a little faster. She adjusts her hand again and presses down harder, watches the way his Adam’s apple tries and fails to move in his throat. “Now you know what it feels like,” she murmurs. “Now you know what you’re leaving me with.”

“Sadist,” he gasps, writhing underneath her. “Why do you... get joy... out of my pain?”

“Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” She snakes a hand between them and wraps a tight fist around his dick, ignoring the bottle of lube next to them. “You’re the closest thing I’ve got that isn’t.” She starts to stroke up and down, hard and fast. His eyes grow unfocused as he struggles to breathe, and it’s not until his eyes start to roll back that she removes her hand from his throat. His back arches off of the bed as he gasps for air, and his dick pulses in her hand as he comes all over his stomach, fingers still buried inside of himself.

It takes him a few minutes to breathe right again, to pull his fingers from himself and clean himself off. He’s still panting a little when he sits upright on the bed, and it takes one look for him to cross the mattress and kiss her hard on the mouth. Santana inhales sharply and ignores the tears that burn at her eyes. Sebastian’s not worth crying over, he’s not.

His lips trail across her cheek, down to her neck and shoulder, and it’s the first time in a long time she’s felt this alone.

*****

He drops her off at her abuela’s at four-thirty in the morning. She barely has time to set her duffle bag on the porch swing before he’s grabbing her arm and spinning her around with force; he presses her against the screen door, her back hitting it with a too-loud _slam_. He fists a hand in the material of her wife-beater near her waist and slides his other hand to the back of her neck, his thumb cradling her jaw. He kisses her without asking, hard and soft, fast and slow, moist and dry. He kisses her because he didn’t talk the entire drive home, and she won’t let him talk now, at the end. She didn’t want him to ruin this.

He did anyway.

“I hate you,” she gasps against him, anchoring a hand on his wrist. “I hate you so much. You’re a fucking asshole and you’re _leaving_ and --”

“-- and you hate me,” Sebastian finishes for her, laughing as he kisses her again. “I hate you too.”

One last kiss and then he’s gone, down the steps and into his car and out of the driveway, leaving her breathless and slumped against the front door. He doesn’t look back, not once, and for the first time, she’s really glad he’s leaving.

*****

Blaine says _I love you_ long before Sebastian does. They're six months into the relationship -- probably less, if Sebastian remembers correctly -- when he does. It doesn't come as a total surprise (Blaine is fairly obvious when he makes heart eyes) but it never really occurs to Sebastian to say it _back_. Blaine seems okay with this, surprisingly, something's Sebastian's glad for.

It's not until they've been together a year and a half that anything really changes: he's a week late flying home to see his parents after they've finished their sophomore year, sick and bedridden and absolutely miserable. And Blaine -- Blaine stays with him the entire week, gets the Warblers to postpone a trip to the water park and basically waits on Sebastian hand and foot. Sebastian is an absolute asshole when he's sick, it's a fact he'll acknowledge freely, but Blaine's patience doesn't seem tested the entire week, not once. It's not until Thursday when Sebastian's half-sitting up in bed and being spoon-fed chicken soup that he softens or is coherent enough to really appreciate what Blaine's done for him, and he mumbles it sleepily when Blaine shifts to set the bowl on the nightstand. Blaine doesn't say anything, just smiles and pushes Sebastian's hair off of his forehead and kisses the skin there before pushing him back under the covers to sleep.

Sex is just sex up until then. Sex is something he does, sex is something he enjoys, sex is something that's purely physical. Sex is just sex, and then it's sex with Blaine, and then it's not sex anymore after he says it. The first time it happens is two days later when he's mostly recovered. They fall together into the sheets, the room dark, Blaine on his back and Sebastian between his legs; it's stupidly desperate, the way Blaine's legs wrap around him and his hands grab and scratch and claw against Sebastian's arms and shoulders and back. He's inside of Blaine and for the first time, Blaine really _owns_ him.

It's terrifying and it's unplanned and Sebastian knows this can't go on, but it does. It does for a whole year more and then some, and he sort of hates himself for it.

*****

“Here’s your tea, Abuela,” Santana says, setting the cup down on the table next to her. “Did you want anything else? I don’t think Roger and Cindy were planning on doing cake for a while --”

Her abuela waves a hand at her dismissively. “No, no, you go on, mija,” she encourages. “Go say hello to Sebastian.”

Santana blinks at her in surprise. “He’s here?”

Her abuela smiles at her, and Santana forces herself to smile back. “He’s living with his parents for the summer,” she informs Santana. “Came up to me right away and wished me a happy birthday.” She grabs Santana’s arm and leans in close. “He told me I didn’t look a day over forty-seven.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Sounds like him.” She straightens a little. “I’ll be back for cake, okay?”

She weaves her way between guests and pokes her head in a few rooms as she passes by -- the kitchen, the library, the study -- and ends up on the back patio amidst a bunch of middle-aged adults drinking wine coolers. Sebastian’s still nowhere to be seen, but Santana grabs a pair of wine coolers out of the ice chest and wanders around a little more.

She finds him in the poolhouse, pants rolled up to his knees, bare feet dangling in the water. He’s lying on his back, a fedora covering his face. He looks taller, older, even just like this, but seeing him again makes Santana feel like she’s seventeen.

But she’s not.

“Hey, loser.”

He starts on the ground, feet splashing in the water as he turns a little, fedora falling off of his face. She can see his shoulders relax once he realizes who it is, though, sees the smile spread across his face and god _damn_ , has she missed having him around. “Snix.”

She kicks off her heels and pads across the concrete to join him, dipping her own feet in the water. It’s a welcome relief in the summer heat and humidity. She hands him one of the wine coolers wordlessly and takes a sip of her own, watching her feet move beneath the water. “I didn’t think you’d be back until the fall.”

He’s quiet, too quiet, and that makes her nervous. Normally, she couldn’t get him to shut up.

She smiles.

“No reason to stay,” he says after a while, sipping his own cooler. “What about you? Your abuela said you spent most of your time down at school the last four years.”

She shrugs. “Harvard starts in the fall. I wanted a little time to get used to what I’m supposed to be like.”

She can feel his eyes on her. “Still haven’t --”

“No,” she hisses immediately. “Not -- not to her. Not gonna happen. I’m not you.”

He taps her foot with his own in the water companionably. “I’m not me, either.” She looks over at him and grips the edge of the pool tightly, the concrete rough against her palms. He draws in a breath, long and slow and loud, before he speaks. “The day I left for California, after we -- after I dropped you off at your abuela’s,” he amends, and she fights back a blush, shifting uncomfortably. “My dad was waiting for me on the front steps that morning. I think -- I think he knew, about us, you know?”

Santana tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “Did he --”

Sebastian shakes his head. “He didn’t say anything to your abuela, don’t worry.” His hand inches towards hers, his pinkie finger brushing against hers. “He made it clear to me that I could do what I wanted out in California, while I was in undergrad, but when I came home...” He tapers off and kicks his feet a little, water sloshing around them. “There was a plan,” he says, his tone flat. “There’s always been a plan. I wanted Harvard. I wanted law. I wanted the Senate seat. They supported that.”

She smiles dryly at him. “There’s always a but.”

“Naturally,” he says bitterly. “It’s -- they didn’t have a problem with me being gay, I don’t think. But they’re a little... old-fashioned.”

She grins and finishes off her own wine cooler, setting it on the pavement and plucking Sebastian’s from his hand. “That’s putting it nicely,” she chuckles. “Normally you’re the one with something up your ass, aren’t you?”

He grins back at her and steals the drink back, downing the rest of it in one go before setting it down behind them. His smile fades after a moment, though, and he trains his gaze back on the pool. “They didn’t want me to make it difficult to get what I wanted.”

“You being out makes it difficult,” she supplies. Her fingers curl around the edge of the pool again, betraying her anger. “It’s never that difficult for you to get what you want. You know that, right?”

He reaches over and pries one of her hands away from the edge, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he sighs. “I -- look, I know I can be a bit of an asshole sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” she says, her tone dry and sarcastic.

He gives her a look but smirks anyway. “Okay, most of the time,” he allows. “And I don’t -- look, I’m not trying to make you feel better about anything, but I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. I’m really glad you’re gonna be at Harvard with me. You deserve it.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “That’s trying to make me feel better, Mr. Rogers.”

He winces at the reference to his father’s name and lets go of her hand. They’re both quiet for a long time, feet narrowly missing each other beneath the water, before he ventures, “We could --”

“How did I know you were going to suggest that?” Santana sighs.

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I didn’t have to.”

Silence again and his feet dare to touch hers beneath the water. “It’s not like it’s new,” he argues. “We did it for over two years.”

“That was before,” she throws back. “You want me to be your trophy wife, this is totally different --”

“I don’t have a choice!”

She recoils a little at the sudden volume and biting tone to his voice. “You don’t get to do this,” she says, her voice dangerously low and uneven. “You don’t get to call all the shots here. You don’t get to be mad at me. You _left_.”

“I came back.”

“We said goodbye!” she yells, her voice echoing and reverberating in the empty space around them. “You went to California, you got to be out, you didn’t have to watch your fucking back the whole time --”

“That doesn’t mean I had it easy,” he argues. “It -- god, do you know how much harder that made it to come back here, to all _this_?” he says, gesturing around.

“Why didn’t you just stay in California?” she asks.

Sebastian’s jaw sets and he exhales through his nose, still clearly upset but fighting to control it. “Not part of the plan,” he says through gritted teeth. “I -- look, you could fuck whoever you wanted, Santana. I wouldn’t ask you to do what we did again, not after what we’ve been through.”

“Which brings us back to the trophy wife,” she points out. “You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life being your obedient arm candy.”

“I’d never do that,” he assures her. “You’d probably have me killed and make it look like an accident if I even thought about it. And I -- I respect you too much for that.” He swallows and reaches for her hand again. “I missed you,” he admits, softening a little. “I told you I would, and if I have to do this, I’d rather do it with someone I trust. And there’s no one I trust more than you. I’d rather it were you than anyone else.” He looks up at her, his eyes earnest and stupidly desperate and --

“I hate you,” she sighs. “Have I ever told you that? I really, really hate you.”

He smiles. “It’s win-win,” he points out. “Look, I know you like to keep up appearances for your abuela. We’re helping each other out here.”

She hums at him and looks back at the water, thinking. “We’d have to spend the entire summer together,” she says after a moment. “To get to know each other again, find out how much we’ve changed. We have to be convincing.”

“Do I have to be romantic about this?” he laughs. “Should I officially ask you to be my beard again?”

Her lips twist a little, unable to decide if they want to smirk or pout, and she nods steely. “Yep, I think I’ve about had my dose of Sebastian Smythe for the day,” she announces, and promptly reaches over to shove him into the pool.

That turns out to be a mistake, though, because even though he’s caught off guard, he has enough presence of mind to try and grab onto something to hold onto on his way in, and that something happens to be her leg. She falls into the pool after him with a shriek, her dress clinging to her body even more tightly than it was before, and she breaks the surface of the water sputtering. “You son of a bitch!”

“You pushed me in!” he howls.

“You just asked me to be your beard for the rest of our lives, I think I’m entitled to it! You push, I push back, remember?”

“And that,” he drawls, grinning and swimming towards her, “is what I love about you. I love that you fight back, and I love that you fight dirty.” She rolls her eyes but lets him box her in against the wall of the pool, his eyes glittering with mischief. Her life will never be boring, that’s for sure.

She spies his father crossing the back patio, headed in their direction. Santana turns her attention back to Sebastian. “You trust me, don’t you?”

His brow furrows a little. “Well, yeah, why --”

“Just go with it,” she whispers, hooking her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. She hesitates for the space of a second, eyes trailing down to Sebastian’s lips; Roger’s hand reaches for the handle of the door to the poolhouse, and Santana tugs Sebastian in for a kiss.

She’s forgotten how it feels, the way his lips mold over hers and the stubble on his chin and the hard, firm line of his jaw. He inhales sharply at the contact, clearly caught off guard and as unused to it as she is, but he doesn’t pull away; instead, he anchors his hands at her waist, sliding a hand around to press against the small of her back and pull her closer. Her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck out of habit and she’s seventeen again, back in a dark closet.

At least she’s not alone.

“ _Ahem_.”

Sebastian breaks the kiss and turns slightly in Santana’s arms to look at his father over his shoulder. “We were going to do cake,” Roger announces, sounding slightly amused. He looks so fucking _smug_ that Santana has to look away so she doesn’t betray her rage. “We can wait an extra fifteen minutes if you two wanted to change into dry clothes. Cindy might have something that will fit you, Santana.”

“Um, yeah, just... give us a bit, we’ll be right there,” Sebastian answers, clearly flustered. He waits until his father’s out the door and it clicks shut behind him before he turns to face Santana, smirking. “Voyeurism, huh?”

A grin spreads slowly across her face. “Oh, you have _no_ idea.”

*****

"Why am I not surprised they elected you their homecoming king?" Santana sighs, leaning back as the waiter sets a salad down in front of each of them.

"Thank you," Sebastian says absently to the waiter before picking up his fork and knife. "Maybe because it's not the first time it's happened?" he says dryly, reaching across the table and transferring the beets from Santana's plate to his own.

"Nice to know you still keep your ego in check," she snorts, maneuvering around his hands and arms to pick the onions from his plate. "Was your homecoming queen as spectacular as I was?"

"Yours too," he throws back. "Worse, actually. I spent most of the night wanting to strangle her."

"Law school first, dear," she says, her voice sugar-sweet. "You'll need a good lawyer to keep you out of jail."

"That's what I have you for, isn't it?" he says, grinning.

She grins back and reaches across the table again to collect the radishes off of his plate with her fork, but he nudges her hand away with his knife and starts to eat. "What, you eat radishes now?" He nods, focused on his plate, glancing up only when she nudges his leg with her stiletto. "You have to tell me these things," she chastises, "for this to work."

"They're radishes," he says flatly. "They're a neglected vegetable. It's really not that big of a deal --"

"Oh my god," she laughs, turning her attention to her own salad. "Did they turn you into a hippie or something out in California?"

He shrugs and takes another bite of his salad. "No, just something Blaine got me saying --"

"Okay," she says loudly, dropping her fork and knife to her plate with a noisy clatter. "Who the _hell_ is Blaine? You've mentioned him like twenty times this week."

Sebastian blinks up at her. "Um, my ex?"

She just stares at him. "You dated someone?"

"Well, yeah --"

"Like, seriously? Because it sounds like you know him pretty well."

Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "I guess so? I mean, we were together almost three years, so --"

" _Three years_?" Santana's mouth is agape. "What the _fuck_ , Sebastian? This isn't like you. Why, _why_ would you date someone that seriously when you knew what your parents expected of you, what you were coming back to?"

"I didn't plan it, okay?" Sebastian snaps back defensively. "It just happened. And like I said, he's my ex, so this isn't a problem."

Santana's jaw twitches but she sighs, reaching for her water glass. "When did you break it off?"

"After homecoming," Sebastian mumbles, poking at the leaves in his salad with his fork.

There's a brief moment of silence before she ventures, "Did you love him?" Sebastian doesn't answer. "You still do."

Sebastian throws his fork down with a little more force than is strictly necessary, huffing out impatiently. "Can we just not?"

"No," Santana argues, imitating him. "We're doing this. You broke things off with him and you've spent the last six or seven months pining after him? Sebastian, you can't go back there. Screw whoever you want, but at the end of the day this is about you and me. He can't be part of the picture. It's time for you to move on."

*****

Sebastian stands up, wine glass in hand, and clears his throat; Santana resists the urge to roll her eyes and crosses one leg over the other, sipping from her own glass. “First of all, let me just say how good it is to see us all together like this. Reminds me of the old days.” She sees his parents smile out of the corner of her eye and sips from her drink to avoid commenting because _man_ , is he laying it on thick. He pauses for a moment, looking down at the glass in his hand before looking back up at the rest of them. “Actually, it’s -- it’s sort of nice. Everything’s... the way it’s supposed to be. Except --” He stops again, glances over at his parents before setting his glass down on the table. “There’s just... one thing missing.”

And then the fucking bastard is down on one knee and pulling a small black box out of his pocket and Santana can’t do anything other than sit there with her jaw hanging open. “Marry me, Poohbear?”

Santana makes the mistake of flicking her gaze over to her abuela, and there’s an eagerness on her face, _hope_ in her eyes, and Santana stammers out a _yes_.

Sebastian pries the glass from her hand and slips the ring on her finger (he has taste, she’ll give him that -- six carats, _damn_ ), tugging her to her feet and into his arms. She hides her face against his shoulder, hides from his parents, her abuela, all of them and tries to just _breathe_ because there’s no turning back now.

He pulls away from her a little, looks down at her and she _knows_ what he’s thinking, hates that she knows him that well. He doesn’t really give her much time to consider it, though. Sebastian leans down and in, cups her jaw in his hand and presses a firm kiss to her lips. Santana inhales sharply at the contact and squeezes her eyes shut. When he breaks the kiss, he looks slightly apologetic but doesn’t linger; his mother tugs at his arm and stands up on tiptoe to hug her son.

“Mija.”

Santana spins around and meets her abuela’s eyes with her own wide ones. “Abuela,” she breathes. “I --”

“Mija, I’m so proud of you.”

Her abuela is smiling at her, big and bright, and Santana can’t bring herself to be negative about this; she’s never coming out, she isn’t, and she can’t screw this up. This is what’s _supposed_ to happen, just like Sebastian said. This is why they’re back to their little arrangement. This is -- god, she hates that she’s had to work twice as hard to make something of herself, to prove herself, to prove... whatever the fuck it is she has to prove to everyone, to her abuela.

“Abuela,” she says again, resting a hand on her abuela’s arm to steady herself, “I --” She glances over her shoulder at Sebastian and then back at her abuela, flashing a smile. “I’m gonna go talk to him, okay?” Her abuela nods, leans up and presses a kiss to Santana’s forehead before patting her cheek.

Santana has to fight not to shake with rage as she wraps an arm around Sebastian’s elbow and smiles sweetly at his parents. “Do you mind if I borrow my fiance?”

“He’s all yours,” his father laughs, raising his wine glass.

Santana tugs him from the patio into the house and practically throws him into the library; she shuts the door behind them, turns around, plants her palms flat against his chest and shoves. “What,” she seethes, shoving him again, “the _fuck_ \--” another shove “-- was that?”

She reaches out to shove him a fourth time but he grabs her by the wrists and stops her, equally as pissed. “This is what we agreed upon, remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” she snorts, folding her arms over her chest and keeping her distance. “But we never agreed you could just spring shit like that on me. We should’ve talked about this!”

“What’s there to talk about?” Sebastian says, and his voice is too loud, their families will overhear.

Santana glances over at the door before shooting Sebastian a glare. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses. “We’ve only been back together for four months --”

“You’re keeping track,” Sebastian mutters. “Dear god, you’re _counting_.”

“Every detail counts!” Santana insists, fighting to keep her voice low. “This is way, way too soon.”

“Did you see them out there?” Sebastian says, gesturing towards the door. “They were elated.”

“Well of course they were,” Santana snaps. “It’s --”

“-- part of the plan,” Sebastian finishes for her. “So what is your problem?”

“Where is this coming from?” Santana presses. “Why now?”

Sebastian stares at her for a moment, jaw set, before sinking down into a leather armchair. “I almost had sex with him.”

Santana blinks at him disbelievingly. “I’m sorry, I just hallucinated. You _what_?”

“Blaine,” Sebastian mumbles into his hand, gazing at the floor. “At the party Friday night, I -- I almost slept with him.”

Santana crosses the room and smacks him across the back of the head. “Have you lost your fucking mind?!” She reaches out to smack him again but he bats her hand away, clearly irritated.

“Stop it,” he mutters, and there isn’t even any fight in him. It’s pathetic, sad and pathetic and Santana does not get why Sebastian is so hung up on this guy. He’s a brown noser and wears too much product in his hair and god, those hideous bowties.

“He doesn’t belong here,” she reminds him. “He followed you here like a lap dog and he’s going to screw this up. He’s going. To screw this. Up,” she repeats. “And I refuse to let that happen.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sebastian says, rubbing at his eyes. “Nothing happened and I’m pretty sure I finally did a good job of pushing him away, Santana, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Santana sighs and rests her hands on her hips. She hates Sebastian. She hates that they know each other so well and she hates that she’s going to marry him and she hates that she has a soft spot for him. She hates that he makes her care. “What happened?” she asks. “Was it the bunny outfit? Is that like a _thing_ for you? Because kinks aren’t on my list of details I need to know --”

“It wasn’t the costume,” Sebastian sighs. “I mean, it did something for me, I’m not going to lie, his ass looked fantastic in those shorts --”

“Gross. I didn’t need to hear that.”

“The point is that it was supposed to be just sex,” Sebastian explains. “I wasn’t-- I wasn’t going to get back together with him, okay?”

And that surprises her, the fact that Sebastian is trying to be smart enough to stick to the plan. Still, sleeping with Anderson has to be the _dumbest_ solution Santana has ever heard. She sighs and sinks down onto the arm of the chair. “That’s a lie and you know it. He probably looked at you with those big puppy eyes and begged you to take him back and you would’ve --”

“I told him no,” Sebastian says flatly. “I told him it was just supposed to be one last fling and that we weren’t going to get back together.”

“Bet he didn’t take that well,” Santana snorts.

“No,” Sebastian says shortly. “He didn’t. He --”

“What?” Santana demands, hooking her fingers under his chins and forcing him to meet her gaze. “What did he say? What did he do that’s got you angsting like a fourteen-year-old? What did he do to make you give me this?” she asks, wiggling her fingers and flashing her engagement ring at him.

“He thinks he’s never going to be good enough for me,” Sebastian says softly. He swallows and breathes out through his nose, and something in Santana’s stomach twists. “He thinks that’s why I broke up with him. I mean, fuck, of course he does, that’s what I told him last year.”

Santana’s mouth twists unpleasantly. “Was he pissed? I can’t imagine him taking his usual polite, diplomatic route.”

“I hurt him, Santana.” His eyes glaze over and fuck, he’s going to _cry_ ; she’s never seen him cry before. “I just -- I had to keep my distance but I didn’t want to hurt him and I did anyway. He thinks --” Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut and there they are, the stupid fucking tears she can tell he’s been holding back and Santana doesn’t feel like she knows him at all any more. She doesn’t know who the fuck this guy is, this guy who has more blue in his wardrobe than she can remember and wears the occasional hat; this guy who keeps a pair of reading glasses in his pocket and eats radishes and wants to spend more time outside while it’s still warm.

Santana sinks down on her knees in front of him and runs a thumb over his cheek to brush his tears away. “Hey,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “Look at me.” He does as she commands, sluggish and half-hearted, and she _hates_ how much he makes her care. “Are we doing this or not?” she asks, showing off the diamond again. He nods. “Then you have got to get over him.” He opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Santana presses a finger to his lips to silence him. “Don’t. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but this isn’t something you can revisit. This isn’t something you can have. You can’t have him. And from the way it sounds, I don’t think he wants you any more.” Sebastian flinches at that a little but Santana overlooks it because she has to. “He doesn’t need you. But I do. And this,” she says quietly, linking their hands together and glancing down at her ring, “this tells me you need me too.”

Sebastian brings her hand up to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of her hand and exhales, his breath heavy against her skin. “Snix, I --”

“Don’t tell me you love me,” she says shortly. “And don’t kiss my hand like you’re some fucking prince, okay? You’re not fucking royalty, sorry to deflate that huge ego of yours.”

That gets him to smile, even if he does look sort of annoyed, and he shoves at her shoulder lightly. “Bitch.”

She grins at him. “Takes one to know one.”

*****

During the year and a half long ‘Sebastian is a pathetic loser and pines over Blaine even though he was the one who initiated the break-up’ fest, Sebastian falls into a few patterns. He creates a playlist that’s simply entitled _B_ and the most played song is Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” (and yes, it does make him feel like a gay stereotype). The weekend after he proposes to Santana (and that’s how he has to think of it because if he associates it with Blaine it becomes much too painful to think about), he curls up in bed, resolutely ignores every single one of his law books, and pops _Return to Me_ in his DVD player. Santana finds him halfway through his second viewing and curls up with him on the other half of the mattress (which shouldn’t be that comfortable but it is); she forces him to start it over so she can follow along with the story and doesn’t buy his excuse that it’s his comfort film because he likes looking at David Duchovny. By the fourth time they watch it together that weekend, Santana’s providing her own in-depth character analysis and commentary (“This is _exactly_ like stabbing the heart of Davy Jones, what crack are you smoking?”).

For the first time in a week, it makes Sebastian smile.

*****

Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his bed and groans, blinking his eyes open blearily. It takes him a minute to adjust to the light in his room (and he’s never been more grateful for the fact that he prefers yellow light over white light because god, he feels like shit), but once he does, he lolls his head to the side and notices that his chair has been pulled up next to the side of his bed. He follows the stilettos to the long, silky smooth legs up to the bored face of his fiance, who’s sporting one of his fedoras. “Hey,” he croaks.

She glances up at him from the textbook she’s reading and sighs, plucking the glass of water from his nightstand table and handing it to him. “Hey, loser.”

“Don’t be such a bitch,” he groans. “I feel like I’m on my deathbed, here.”

“You’re _fine_ ,” she scoffs, snapping her book shut.

He hands her the cup. “Do I have you to thank for that?”

“Aww, sweet,” she purrs. “But no, your miracle worker is your family physician. Guess all those years in med school actually taught him something. Who knew?”

Sebastian smiles a little and bends his leg to nudge her knee with his own through the blankets. His eyes fall to his nightstand where there’s something out of place; it takes him a minute to realize there’s a vase there now that wasn’t before, a small vase filled with a small bouquet of blue hyacinths, his favorite. He reaches out for them and brings them to his nose, smiling even though he can’t really smell them. “Poohbear, I didn’t think you cared,” he drawls, his voice sore and sounding froggy. God, if he looks half as awful as he feels...

“Please,” she snorts. “Do I look the type of person to bring you flowers _and_ sit vigil at your bedside?”

“The perfect little doting wife,” he says mockingly, reaching out to tap her nose; she mimes biting his finger off. “They’re probably from my mom,” he adds, pulling the card from its holder. “Although I wouldn’t have figured she’d know that these were my --” He tapers off when he flips open the card and reads the one letter inscribed inside: -- _B_. “-- favorite,” he finishes breathlessly.

*****

Sebastian inhales, long and deep, and surveys the courtyard in front of him with a small smile on his face. It’s the start of his second year at Harvard, and for the first time in five years, Boston feels like home again. Sebastian credits that to his summer in Paris, to the sun along the southern coastline that one blissful week in late June. The last two years have been especially hard on him, particularly in regard to the break-up and the engagement and --

Sebastian exhales and shakes his head determinedly, turning his back on the courtyard to make his way over to the coffee shop. Things are different now. That was the whole point of getting away this summer, to drop his defenses and enjoy himself and not get so stressed out. In a lot of ways, France reminded Sebastian of California. But that’s a thing of the past, and Boston is his past and present and future all rolled into one. He hasn’t always been unhappy here, and it’s with another inhale that autumn settles into Sebastian’s bones. He’ll always be partial to the summer, he thinks (and that, at least, was always true before California, even if he never let it show). This summer only served to further prove that, and it’s with another smile that Sebastian remembers Santana’s sun-kissed skin on the beach and hazy eyes in the nightclubs, just as happy. France afforded them the opportunity to take advantage of the secret perks of their little arrangement. Sebastian laughs quietly to himself at the memory of him and Santana acting as the other’s wingman, Sebastian spending his nights on the couch when Santana had found someone to let loose with, Santana teasing him when he’d walk in their suite sore and completely disheveled. It’d been oddly freeing, after the pining and torture he’d put himself through after the break-up. And yeah, being back in Boston means they both have to start keeping up appearances again, but it’s the first time in a long time that Sebastian’s felt like himself underneath all of that.

He pushes open the door to the coffee shop and glances around at the tables until he spots the person he’s looking for. Sebastian approaches the table with a confidence and ease he hasn’t felt in ages, and it’s as he slides into the chair waiting for him that Blaine looks up from his textbook in acknowledgement. In the time it takes Blaine to blink, Sebastian sees apprehension melt out of Blaine’s face and Blaine smiles, eyes lighting up --

_Fuck._

“Hi,” Blaine greets warmly, nudging a coffee cup across the table. “I ordered for you, I hope that’s okay. You still take a shot of courvoisier in your coffee, right?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian responds dumbly, picking up the cup just for something to do. Blaine even remembered his coffee order and this is _stupid_ , why is Sebastian getting so worked up over this? He got over Blaine this summer, that was the whole point.

Blaine shifts a little in his seat, discomfort showing, but his smile is still warm and genuine as he meets Sebastian’s eyes. “How was your summer?”

“Good,” Sebastian answers automatically, because it was, and he’s not going to let one measly cup of coffee ruin that. “Santana and I spent it in Paris.”

Blaine arches an eyebrow, mouth twisting into an amused smile. “Sounds romantic,” he quips dryly.

Sebastian takes a sip of his coffee (just the way he likes it, fuck fuck fuck) and swallows. “It was nice,” he admits, ignoring the jab. “We both got to clear our heads a little. It was a much needed vacation.” And god, that hits Sebastian like a slap in the face, because that’s all it was, a _vacation_ from what his life is going to be like, tied to Santana and pining after Bla --

_No._

Sebastian returns the question with mildly curious interest, trying to push the attention off of his arrangement with Santana. Blaine supplies him with answers easily, happy and unaffected. Blaine spent most of his summer in Boston interning (not a surprise) with the exception of two weeks early on in the summer that he spent in California, attending some of the Warblers’ graduation and introducing Kurt to his parents (and maybe that’s not a total surprise, but it does catch Sebastian off guard and he tries to save face as best as he can). Blaine seems _happy_ \-- no, _is_ happy, settling into life in Boston much more easily than he did last year. And Sebastian’s happy because Blaine’s happy, and he doesn’t want to ruin that with his stupid, stupid inability to keep his feelings in check.

But then Blaine rises from his chair to leave, stands up on tiptoe to hug Sebastian goodbye, whispers the words “It’s so good to see you again” and “I’m really glad we can do this -- be friends,” and fuck, Sebastian is screwed. He’s never going to get over Blaine, not like this, not spending so much time around him, studying, working, trying to be just friends with him. Sebastian was stupid to think that one summer out of the country would change all of that, that fucking a long line of pretty Parisian boys would get Blaine out of his system.

Blaine is always going to be infectious, and Sebastian will never be immune to him.

*****

Santana flips over onto her stomach, nestling her cheek on her arm as the sun’s rays beat down on her. There’s something comforting and familiar about being out here on the Cape with Sebastian during the summer, even if it’s Labor Day weekend and they’re here under the watchful eyes of their families. It’s a part of her that remains the same, a part of her she’s allowed to show, and she smiles a little at the sight of Sebastian stretched out on his back next to her. He’s grown so much in the last ten years, height and muscle and sacrifice. She tosses her sunglasses onto her towel and closes her eyes.

“We should set a date.”

Santana blinks her eyes open in surprise. “What?”

“We should set a date,” Sebastian repeats, not looking over at her. “For the wedding.”

Santana sighs and closes her eyes again, shifting on the towel to try and avoid the awkward lumps of sand underneath. “What brought that on?”

“Don’t be like that,” Sebastian says. “This time next year, we’ll have graduated and taken the bar.”

“Ah, and getting married is the next part of the plan, right?” Santana muses.

“You know it is,” Sebastian answers quietly. “We should set a date and start looking at venues and color schemes and --”

“Whoa, okay, hold on,” Santana interjects, propping herself up on her elbows to look at Sebastian properly. “It’s one thing to set a date. It’s another to sit here and talk about things like _color schemes_. Next thing you know, you’re going to be asking me about cake tastings and flower arrangements, and I know neither of us really gives a shit, so what’s this really about?”

She can see Sebastian’s face fall a little even just from looking at his profile, and it’s his turn to prop himself up on his elbows in order to answer her, eyes trained on the water. “Blaine’s moving in with Kurt.”

Santana considers it a great personal accomplishment that she doesn’t roll her eyes. “And that got you all gung-ho about planning your own happily ever after.”

“Can you just... _not_ mock me, for once?” Sebastian asks.

Santana’s lips thin into a line. “I’m never going to be him,” she says resolutely.

“I would never expect you to be,” Sebastian sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Santana softens a little but looks back down at her towel. “You’re never going to get over him, are you?”

“It’s not easy.”

“I don’t think you’ve really been trying,” Santana argues, flipping over onto her back again.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to bring myself to even _try_ when I’m around him all the time,” Sebastian throws back, and it’s that that makes Santana look over at him again. His eyes are still trained on the water in front of them but she can see it in his eyes, the ache that’s been there since they reunited two summers ago. He looks over at her after a moment, eyes dull against the sun. “We’re not really trying at this either, are we?”

Santana sighs and looks away, taking her turn to look out at the expanse in front of them. “I’m tired,” she says. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Exhausted,” he admits with a slight laugh. “Wh -- what would you tell your abuela?”

She sticks her toes into the sand and kicks at it a little, debating. “I don’t know,” she answers quietly. “The truth, I guess.”

“Would you really?”

Santana shrugs, more out of habit than to disguise how she really feels. He probably sees right through her anyway. “She basically raised me on her own,” Santana reminds him. She glances over at him and tries to smile. “That’s has to count for something, right?”

“It’s a big jump from giving me my grandmother’s ring back to coming out to yours, though,” Sebastian points out.

Santana glances down at her hand and starts to twist the ring on her finger just for something to do. “Do you want it back now?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “No, later, when there’s less of a chance of losing it. Not that it matters much, anyway.” Santana looks up again and raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you really think I’m going to be able to do this with anyone else, Santana?”

She looks away, suddenly guilty and definitely not wanting him to see that. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I know I pushed this our first year at Harvard, but --”

“Don’t be,” Sebastian cuts in, reaching over to settle his hand on hers. “I was the one who asked in the first place.” He shifts again so that he’s hovering over her a little, and he uses his fingers to tilt her face back to his. “And if you do decide to tell her the truth and she doesn’t take it well, I’m still here.”

Santana snorts a little in derision, she can’t help it. “Yeah, under what conditions?”

“Any,” is Sebastian’s reply, and the tenderness in his voice finally, finally doesn’t make her uncomfortable. She relaxes a little underneath him, grateful. “Just because we’re ending things doesn’t mean you’re getting rid of me, Snix.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighs dramatically. “I actually like you enough to want to keep you around.”

He smirks a little, smile faltering after a moment. “Fitting, isn’t it?” he says dryly. “This is where we said goodbye once, and now here we are, six years later, doing it again.”

“It’s not goodbye,” Santana says, using her elbows to push herself up a little so she can press a kiss to Sebastian’s lips. “Not this time.”


End file.
